


Could've, Didn't

by randomscientist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A beekeeper in Sussex Downs, Beginning from Karachi, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Nero Wolfe is in this universe, the NYC detective born in Montenegro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9816452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist
Summary: This is the story of the Consulting Detective and The Woman. Of time and distance, across land and ocean. Of a word unspoken. Of things that might've gone alternatively, had he been another man and she a different woman. But this is their story.





	1. Karachi, Pakistan

For an extended moment, gazing into the mesmerising blue of her enquiring eyes, as they lay on their sides partially covered by the same thin sheet, their bare skin inches apart underneath, he desperately wanted to tell her.

That he was here, in Karachi, because he couldn't bear the dulling of the sky in a world without The Woman in it.

That the devastation of having played an unnecessarily cruel part sending her to an impending demise had made his every living minute the most agonising hell. His vengeful fury was long extinguished, his ego forgotten, and he just wanted a restart button, or the choice to never have clicked on the game at all.

That he'd travelled over 6,000 km to be by her side, to bid her farewell, to amend his emotion-clouded judgement and overwrite his stabbing last words.

That this was his answer to her question from before, that yes, he absolutely _would_ have 'dinner' with her on the very last night. Her last night as Irene Adler.

That he'd wanted her, wanted this, too, and despite his frustration his traitorous heart wouldn't accept the repeated answer no.

The past 24 h saw further proof that not only was she a formidable opponent, the most brilliant match, she was also his perfect complement. Recent events – fighting terrorists side by side before making a narrow escape; deciding the next course of action as the road stretched on across the desert plain; devising contingency plans, into the night, seamlessly completing each other's thoughts; and..how their bodies moved together in an incredible way, were once again replaying in his mind, his mind that was dragged along by his heart, irrevocably falling deeper and deeper into a dangerous abyss. Falling into sentiments. Falling.. _for her_.

She was still looking at him expectantly, breathing rate still elevated, and as beautiful as ever in the dim light of the hotel room. He wanted to brush his thumb across her flushed cheek, lightly hold her delicate face in his hand, and kiss her again. It would've been far too easy to give in. It would also not have been enough.

But he knew that his life as Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, London had no capacity to accommodate what his heart was yearning to have. No superlative could describe the ache in his chest that was beginning to consume his mind, at the thought of having to face an Irene-shaped void that she would yet again leave behind, the next morning by the latest, and for good this time.

He took in a shaky breath. Under the blazing sun and blinking stars of Karachi they had each allowed themselves to be more armourless than they'd ever been. Sherlock and Irene, not the consulting detective versus the dominatrix scheming to bring a nation to its knees. These preceding moments when he was by her side and had her by his, however briefly, would soon turn into a memory he'd always hold dear. From the present onwards, through every mile and every year. It would have to be enough. And he would make their parting easier.

He tore his eyes away, curled his lips into a sneer, and abruptly sat up.

"Thank you for the information on Moriarty."

He bent down to reach for his shirt and trousers on the floor by the bed, and headed into the bathroom. Whether his hurtful response was seen through or not, when he emerged from his shower fully dressed, The Woman was gone, along with her new identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was listening to To Be By Your Side (Nick Cave, 2001) and..  
> Is this not Sherlock/Irene?
> 
> "Across the oceans across the seas,  
> Over forests of blackened trees.  
> Through valleys so still we dare not breathe,  
> To be by your side.
> 
> Over the shifting desert plains,  
> Across mountains all in flames.  
> Through howling winds and driving rains,  
> To be by your side."
> 
> "Into the night as the stars collide,  
> Across the borders that divide  
> Forests of stone standing petrified,  
> To be by your side.
> 
> Every mile and every year,  
> For every one a single tear,  
> I cannot explain this, dear,  
> I will not even try."
> 
> "And tonight I will be by your side.  
> But tomorrow I will fly away,  
> Love rises with the day  
> And tonight I may be by your side.  
> But tomorrow I will fly.."


	2. Podgorica, Montenegro

Across mountains and plateau, from Pakistan to Montenegro. For the past two years a Ms Wolfe had resided in Podgorica, a thousand miles from London, from her old world, and from.. No, she never dwelt on specifically what or, more accurately, _who_ else was a mere three-hour plane journey away.

His way of avoiding her question, of not saying goodbye, had told her everything she'd needed to know and wanted to hear. It was in his lingering gaze, the constriction of his throat, the masked pain in his expression, the barely discernible wince at his own words – plain and clear. Not to mention what he'd already conveyed through kisses and touches, and what was spelt out in his meticulous measures to ensure her safety. She knew that he cared, that his presence in Karachi wasn't just out of guilt, and it most certainly wasn't simply prologue leading to their chat about Jim.

She – the less danger-seeking side of her – respected his decision, for them not to see each other again. But life, ever ironic, had other plans. And the next time she saw him _was_ because of Moriarty. Indirectly. Whilst he was dismantling the spider web, strand by strand.

The day went on just like any other, until she briefly glanced out of her window, and spotted a familiar figure hovering in the shadow.

Her heart leapt at the recognition, but instantly sank in concern and horror as she took in his appearance. He looked..far from his best. Terrible. Worn. Physically and mentally drained. He did manage to retain a trace of the characteristic sharpness and intensity in his demeanour, but was otherwise almost unrecognisable from the man that she'd known, the impeccably dressed London detective that'd always carried an air of exuberant confidence in his sure strides.

Since hearing of his Fall she'd been keeping a diligent attention on the networks of criminal activity around the world, procuring even the most obscure sources of news, holding onto the glimmer of hope that everything was proceeding exactly as Sherlock had planned.

She wanted to descend the stairs of her shared villa. To approach him from behind and tug on his shoulder and arm. To see his surprise as he turned around, fervour in his blue-green eyes. To be assured that the apparent weariness was another constituent of his disguise. Or to softly erase the haggardness from his face, and kiss any scars away. To stand by his side. To hear his deep baritone voice. To tell him about.. About..

She heard a summoning cry resonating from across the hall.

When she returned to the window with a bright-eyed toddler on her arm and a hardened resolve to observe from afar if _he_ 'd choose to make a move, Sherlock Holmes had disappeared from sight. Quietly and without trace, like a breeze of Montenegrin wind.

Montenegro, or Monte _Nero_ , "Black Mountain".

Here for three times they'd nearly met, each just within the other's grasp, yet neither reached out for that much longed-for clasp. Neither gave in for an ephemeral reunion that would end in yet another dreaded, unsaid goodbye. And any distraction could mean his mission gone awry. He'd fallen from great heights into the darkest of times, perhaps just knowing that she was there would give him the strength to continue his climb. Next stop, Serbia? Less than two hundred miles away.

Here a child had been born of the inky darkness, of the unknown and silence, but through which he would doubtless shine with a fiery splendour and brilliance, just as – she was certain – his father would soon complete his strike back with unyielding resilience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Black Mountain. Mount Lovchen. Tsernagora. Montenegro, which is the Venetian variant of Monte Nero, and your name is Nero."  
> \- Archie Goodwin to Nero Wolfe (Rex Stout, 1954)


	3. London, UK

When Sherlock was transported from the endless Mind Palace staircase back into consciousness for a third time, there wasn't a sudden brightness of surgical light or the worried voice of John to dominate his perception, and his senses were informing him of a different surrounding.

Sight: remained to be assessed. Smell: of plastic – nasal oxygen cannula. Touch: odd, mostly numb, but something, something warm and soft in contact with his left hand.

He forced his heavy eyelids open and felt a surge of adrenaline tightening his chest. It helped clear the fuzziness in his mind.

He hadn't been in the proximity of her face since their intimacy in the heat of Karachi, and he'd dared not _hope_ to be presented with that privilege again. Not even when, consequent of a turn of fate, he did chance upon her elegant form, her steps light and swift ahead of him in the Montenegrin streets. Compelled by a momentary weakness, he'd followed her and found out where she lived. But not even then, at his lowest ebb, towards the end of The Fall, did he break his resolve and ring her doorbell.

Yet here she was, The Woman, in London where she shouldn't be. By his side. She was never one to let anything draw to a close with a grand finale directed by someone else, and of course this time it was _her_ who flew across the world, when the news broke that the Consulting Detective was found in Magnussen's office, on the verge of becoming past tense.

Her makeup was flawless, without the merest hint of any smudge. But there was a single, small, semi-dried water spot on the bed sheet beside his forearm, he observed.

 _"..and The Woman will cry.." Ah. So she did._ And the current level of morphine meant for his bullet wound was no longer sufficient to alleviate the ache in his chest.

Seconds of locked gaze and maintained silence, and her expression shifted as she briefly glanced down – at her small hand gently holding his. For a moment he thought she was going to retract it, but instead of moving her hand, she spoke evenly, "Look how much your pulse rate's just accelerated. Heart still going strong, I see."

Her smirk didn't reach her eyes.

…

No mention was made of what had transpired in Karachi, or what paths they'd each been treading through since.

No comment was given regarding the implication of the slight change in her slender figure, or the inconspicuous mark on her ring finger.

No answer was offered explaining her trip across the Atlantic Ocean, no excuse crafted for the rose and card. No reassurance was stated, no promise sworn. Nor any sign that either of them intended to meet again.

Now wasn't the time.

"Do calm yourself, dear. Mrs Watson will be expecting to see a heavily sedated patient when she slips in to request your discretion. Which reminds me, the window route is no longer under CCTV surveillance, and I estimate will remain in its current state for another 11 hours, give or take. You're welcome." Her parting words rolled off her tongue with the nonchalance of someone remarking upon the serenity of the night, as she stood from the edge of his hospital bed, and he wondered just how much she _knew_. About Mary. About Magnussen.

She quirked an eyebrow as she gave him a final, pointed look before turning to leave.

_Be careful and stay alive, will you?_

He pursed his lips, not breaking their piercing eye contact.

_And you._


	4. Venice, Italy

Amidst the flurry of tweets hashtagged #221bringit! was a case investigation that involved a trip over the North Sea, to Continental Europe. And striding along the quiet Venetian canal bank, Sherlock heard a sound.

Text alert. Not a ringtone he was familiar with, but originating from his trouser pocket where he'd kept his phone.

He reached for his pocket. A phone (relatively new model, simple but classy design, in excellent condition). Not his. With a new message displayed on the screen.

"Dr Watson was asking where you were. I answered his text for you –  _Bed. Busy. Text me next week._ "

His eyes widened in horror, then something else, his breath catching as he recalled nearly colliding into someone earlier that afternoon. An American tourist (judging by the map and the brand of her bag) whose face he didn't manage to catch a glimpse of before being carried forward by the flow of the crowd.

The ringtone sounded again. Notes from his own violin music, he now realised.

"Joking. Flattered that you've kept all my text messages."

The next text contained a single line of Latin, "Sicut cervus anhelat ad fontes aquarum".

 _As the hart panteth after the water brooks._  A specific version of a translation of Psalm 42, verse 1. The motto of Hertford College, University of Oxford, as he recognised from his undergraduate days.

The Bridge of Sighs. She wanted his company under that landmark structure, of the same iconic name common to both cities.

He did need to switch their phones back, after all.

...

Sherlock Holmes regarded legends and folklore to be beneath contempt. Those decorated with ludicrous romantic connotations repelled him the most. But as the gondola slowly glided towards the bridge, cast in a golden orange glow by the setting sun, he turned to the 'American' lady beside him, tucked a strand of stray blonde hair behind her ear, and caught her lips with his.

In the distance, the bells of St Mark's Campanile tolled.

...

That evening – and much of the following day – whirled by in a fervent frenzy of bodies pressing close, of magnetic pull and electric spark. Of limbs entangled, fingers intertwined, and coherence diminished. As though the subconscious was only too eager to exploit catalysis by impulse and seize the physical outlet, to unleash the torrent of emotions in an overpowering rebellion, to demand compensation for years of repressed longing and unfulfilled quota.

A forceful rebound of a tightly coiled spring. But where would it land after a soaring spectacle and meteoric trajectory? Was this a nostalgic final edit on an already adamantly established ending? Or was it the freshly penned Chapter 1 of a sequel awaiting construction?

The fact was..that he'd missed her. _No._ Well, yes, he did, and he couldn't deny it, but that was irrelevant. Analysis restarted. The fact was that he was glad to be alive after having recently walked away from a series of appointments that might've or would've proven lethal. With the bullet, with drugs, and with the undercover mission. The fact was that he was high on the exhilarating thrill of having his game back on.

And the fact was that maybe he did care about forming an acceptable lasting impression on her, and it certainly wasn't the image of an immobile and injury-weakened man whose brainy mind – the mind that she'd found so _sexy_ – had barely resumed functioning.

These had to have been sufficient justification for his leaving a clue to his location abroad on Twitter; Sherlock's newly created account had rapidly gained hundreds of thousands of followers, but the code he'd hidden in that tweet was meant for someone in particular.

Controlled usage. The label for their encounter in Venice, he determined. To be followed by a continued attempt at abstinence and 'rehabilitation'. Romantic entanglements were _not_ for Sherlock Holmes, the work-absorbed detective who detested any interference to his cold logic and pure reason.

There was, however, one issue to that conclusion: he wasn't sure he was able to convince even himself. Not any more. Leading separate lives on different continents across the globe never did stop them from gravitating towards one another in the past. Not to mention they were once again in possession of each other's numbers now.

(Damn radio wave transmission, tempting him with communication made too easy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The landmark Bridge of Sighs at Oxford, linking together two main quadrangles of Hertford College, is named after its counterpart in Venice, despite having little architectural resemblance.
> 
> *There is a Venetian legend, about lovers kissing on a gondola at sunset under the bridge, as the bells of St Mark's Campanile toll.


	5. New York City, US

Like reaching a 'dal segno' notation in sheet music, there were points in Sherlock's life where he was reminded to reverse-scan the passage he'd just played, in search of some bygone sign. And only upon reliving the preceding tunes that he couldn't take back, was he able to move the melody forward, perhaps in a different light.

Mycroft had been the first to save his life, in that back alley where he'd writhed in agony all those years ago. And masking any gratitude under resentment had made his brother's constant, unconcealed concern fractionally more bearable. Then there was John, with a soldier's nerves of steel, momentously marking the beginning of Sherlock's most treasured friendship. Irene was also on the list, unknowingly, before they'd even met. He hadn't previously given these instances much thought, but now the load of the additional value conferred on his life was in effect unmanageable.

Something fundamental had shifted within him. The haunting Norbury lesson in the aquarium, combined with the harrowing experience at Sherrinford, and an uncovering of decades-old memories that he'd mournfully rewritten, had driven a reappraisal about choices and sacrifices, about being human, about pretending not to _feel_ , about the significance of invisible threads and binding ties..

Spending time with Watson Junior, Sherlock would often find his thoughts drifting to another child, a child whose existence he had deduced but cowered from addressing. For 4 years, 1 month, and 7 days a tender young life had been exploring this world, flourishing with the most extraordinary genetic blueprint, from Sherlock himself and the only woman he lov– _held earnest sentiments for_.

"He's so much like you, you know." There was that single text from months ago, saved in his phone. A text without prelude. And one that never gained a reply (what was he supposed to _say_?). But what _was_ the boy like, and what _did_ he like? Was he–

A tug at his trouser leg pulled Sherlock out of his musings and back to the present, backstage of the Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway, Manhattan, after being in the audience of a breathtaking performance. It was the first time he'd heard The Woman sing, and her voice sounded.. _heavenly_.

He'd deceived his way through the corridors, to see her, and to have her see _him_ , in the way that only she could and no one else ever did. To show her that despite any change, despite acquiescing that yes he too was just human and maybe that was okay, he remained Sherlock Holmes the guardian of logic and reason, he was still _Sherlock_ , and he would always be _her_ Sherlock. He would then be shown to her NYC home, fully aware that it was time. Time to meet his – _their_ – son.

But in what universe did things comply with intentions, precisely according to the sequence planned?

Sherlock looked down to the source of the tautening of fabric on one side of his trousers, and froze. The clear, sparkling eyes he was gazing into was of the same hue of blue-green – with flecks of gold – as his own. In them he saw curiosity, concentration, and intellectual capacity. The boy was observing _him_ just as Sherlock was captivated in his initial evaluation (it was remarkable, how he could distinguish features that would positively develop to resemble The Woman: hints of defined lines and shape of the small nose and mouth, and a slightly rounded chin that would narrow with age..).

The boy broke into a toothy grin, and minus a degree of shyness it was _her_ grin, when she was truly relaxed and delighted, an occasional and enchanting sight.

"Dad?" Came the young voice. And Sherlock's chest might well have been filled with a warm stream of spring water, where his heart was normally situated.

…

On this day his 5,600 km flight from London felt like the longest journey. On this day the curtain rose for a most wondrous musical, a multitude of magical firsts, accompanied by laughter like chiming bells. On this day, resting together on the sofa of her brightly lit living room, in the City That Never Sleeps, they were a family of three.

 _Come back to London with me_ , she wondered if he would ask, as she nuzzled into his shoulder and let out a comfortable sigh.

 _Come back to London with me_ , he wanted to plead. Mycroft would be appalled, but an extension of the Holmes line would guarantee protection with the highest level of security.

Yet he thought of the life she had built in America. The opera singer profession was merely a layer of disguise for her surreptitious real work, though the dazzling radiance in her self-portrait wasn't feigned. He thought of Nero's beaming grin – the boy had been talking animatedly about his adventures with his best friend (was the name Arthur or Alex? Or..Archie?).

They were safe, and they were happy.

He kissed the top of his son's dark, unruly fringe, and tightened his arm around his not-wife.

He would leave in the middle of the night. It wouldn't be the first time they'd parted without a goodbye, but this time he knew with certainty that it wouldn't be their last.


	6. Paris, France

The snow had stopped outside, and the lightly white-blanketed city was greeted by soft rays of the winter sun.

It was cold. But there was a rare warmth in The Woman's eyes, a small smile lifting a corner of her mouth slightly upwards as she took another sip of her _café noisette_.

Dismissing an uninvited thought from his mind ( _What would it be like, to lean forward and taste the coffee on those tantalising lips?_ Filed under Experiment Later, sub-directory Not That Much Later), Sherlock slowly continued his sentence, hoping the transitioning of their conversation was subtle enough to pass unremarked upon.

"I've been thinking. There's a word.."

Because what other term was there? For the illogical sense of belonging and completeness knowing that she was somewhere misbehaving under the same vast sky, often 5 h behind as the Earth spun and sometimes 1 h ahead. For the indescribable force that would consistently send a flutter in his heart at the mere sight, sound, or scent of the one person who reigned over his mind. For the unreasonable fuming over too-friendly behaviour towards her and too-keen hands that weren't his. For the unfounded panic whenever an element of danger might land in her path, and the unconditional decision that he would risk anything – his own life included – to protect her, should the situation arise.

What other string of letters could encompass all such manifestations and derivation?

Ordinary people had it simple. Ordinary people had a single word. More direct than 'sentiment', more intense than 'caring'.

Something that had strengthened their instant affinity, the intellectual connection and mutual fascination, into an unbreakable bond. A word for the unique combination of adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin, the destructive chemistry (undoubtedly destructive, yet evidently constructive) that he'd once considered so simple. The same word for the complexity of emotions she'd made him feel, emotions he'd learnt to treat with acceptance. For everything that had crystallised with time, unlikely to ever fade.

Back when they were naïve and ruthless he'd stated it was nothing but a dangerous disadvantage. Needless to say, that belief had long been relinquished. What had prompted him to revisit the topic, he wasn't certain, but he knew it wasn't just because of his near-teenage god-daughter's recent innocent enquiry.

More and more he had indeed been thinking. Whilst flying over land and ocean, exhilarated to reach another reunion destination; as he lay contentedly in darkness and tranquillity, listening to the soft even breathing beside him and feeling rhythmic warm air on his cheek; and in London, in between cases, when he'd wander through Mind Palace halls to seek her company..

Perhaps, after all these years, he was finally ready to tell her. He looked straight into her eyes, gaze unwavering, and opened his mouth again.

"Irene, I _do_ –" He was prepared to vocalise the next word, the tip of his tongue lightly touching his upper jaw. One syllable, four letters.

He felt a delicate index finger pressed to his lips, carrying with it the fragrance of her finely manicured hand.

"I know." Her expression was like melting snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Irene stopping Sherlock from saying the word


	7. Sussex Downs, UK

"Wait." The beekeeper called out before he could stop himself, though his voice was low.

His visitor paused her hand just above the door handle. It wasn't in response but rather simply coincidental to his word. Her movement had already been slowing as she approached the door, as if she was as hesitant as he was, agonising over whether to speak.

His cottage at Sussex Downs only occasionally saw visitors other than John and his brother's PA. There'd been a few irksome journalists that'd somehow acquired his private address. And then there was _him_ – twice Sherlock had opened the door to find a heavily (and amusingly) disguised young man with bright scanning eyes as sharp as his.

The Woman had gracefully arrived without notice on a foggy morning earlier that week, and that single knock, clear and crisp, was the most beautiful of sounds.

Since relocating he still took on cases now and then, but was mostly away from the public eye. And her.. _business_ could be expertly conducted at a distance. If he were to broach the subject, now would be the time. To discuss future arrangements, entertain possibilities. To..ask her to stay.

But then what? Games of puzzle-solving and wits over newspapers at breakfast, and a round of chess whilst waiting for the kettle to sing 'afternoon tea'? Domesticity and companionship, night and day, each other's moves turning all too predictable and never more a mystery? Until time diluted their inky hair to an ever lighter silver and further traced lines at the corners of their eyes, until one pair of charming blue jewels was losing its shine under an ardent but watery gaze, until trembling hands lingeringly caressed cooling skin in a painful, single-sided embrace?

No. He couldn't continue that train of thought. He'd rather close his eyes and see the Queen of his Mind ever brilliant, ever wearing a challenging smirk, when all the lights of the Palace eventually dimmed as the Grim Reaper arrived to take him away. He'd rather them remember each other for their very best of times, as matching sharp minds, always. He knew she would want the same. He couldn't..couldn't have her stay.

"Allow me." He gestured to the door instead.

There was relief written in her demeanour.

…

As he held the door open, she tugged at the lapel of his suit jacket and leaned up to briefly connect their lips.

"Thank you. Mr Holmes." She said in a whisper as she pulled away.

_For not bringing up what we've both been carefully dancing around to avoid. For not making it even more difficult for me to leave. Thank you, because to what you'd wanted but chose not to say, I might've..I might've answered yes._

Thirty years ago on a sunny day in London they had fatefully crossed path, a meeting that had since entangled them like a quantum mechanical paradox, and from that point began a story of many, many occasions of 'could've been but never was'.

But perhaps it was better this way. Better to keep their timelines principally separate, marked with a controlled number of sporadic rendezvous. Better to continue with their intermittent texting, a little surprise and fondness with every sound of the familiar ringtone, a small smile with each 'message delivered' that requested no response.

Better to imagine that the other simply grew disinterested when, someday, a text became their last.

Because unlike fairy tales that'd invariably come to a halt, unlike 'together and happily ever after' with an expiration date attached, this way, this way their story would never have to end. A story through time and distance, of what was spoken in silence. Of anticipation without expectation, the thrill without the burden.

Or so they told themselves.

After all, even death would be powerless to do them apart if they hadn't been _together_ in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay the Could've, Didn't series is now complete. ☺  
> Thank you to anyone reading this! Have a lovely weekend x


End file.
